Chapter 43 Cassidy
Cassidy
The first time I saw this house, I was in awe of it. Even though its grandeur hasn't dwindled, another feeling holds more prominence—a homey feeling. When I step out from the passenger side, Carter is already there, holding the door open for me as though I am some kind of princess.
I stare up at Casa Butcher. It is hard to believe that the single-liner, brute and boxer, sex god, gym junky, rugby playing Max Butcher also has enough space in his talent toolbox to be... creative. I mean, that is what this is. He's an artist. My Max.
Ugh. What can't that man do?
Staring up at it as if for the first time, I take in the steep white walls lit up by external lights and the modernist shape and feel. It's impressive. Not one feature is overlooked; that man likes perfection. That man is perfection.
Grinning to myself, I wander up the steps and through the front door. A man, suited in all black and holding it open, smiles as I move past him.
I wave at him. "Hi."
The Butcher guards are very polite and conservative, almost as though they have very little personality, but I doubt that is the case. They are just professionals.
As I round the sleek black and white kitchen, I see the reflection of the television lights on the hallway walls. Knowing that means one of the boys is awake, I wander down the corridor.
If I thought for a second that Victoria or Butch might be sitting in front of that television, I wouldn't have dared to join them, but they are mostly out of town, at hotels or one of the other houses on their vast real estate portfolio.
Despite that being unusual, I never thought too much about it.
But right now, I do. I mean, it makes sense that she—Victoria—that vapid woman, would purposely keep Butch from his sons.
She must get swallowed up by their presence.
When I see the relaxed, large, and gorgeous form of Bronson Butcher lying on the couch, watching The Bachelor, I laugh to myself. "I can't believe what I'm seeing."
"I know, it's so romantic." He feigns a coo, not moving a muscle.
Rounding the couch and sitting on the single recliner, I'm all of a sudden desperate to tell him he's going to be an uncle.
Of course, I can't. Not until I tell Max that he's going to be a dad.
Although Bronson is an enigma—both charming and easy-going, dark and unpredictable—he's also the one person I'm positive will be nothing but excited about this baby. It's the reaction I want.
Need.
He looks so much like Max and strangely, so very different.
While Max is closed off, Bronson seems welcoming and daring.
Max has black, white, and red tattoos. Bronson has vibrant designs covering almost every inch of his skin.
I stare at his tattooed forearm, where a purple clock and owl are etched into the surface.
Still unmoving, his hands tucked under his thick, strong biceps and his boots crossed up on the cushion, he says, "Did you know that Max named Xander?"
I pull my legs up, crossing them in front of me. "No."
He doesn't divert his eyes from the television.
"Yeah. Mum couldn't be bothered. Personally, I wanted to name him Ned, after Ned Kelly.
But Max wanted it to be Xander. His name has a loose translation—'defender of men.
' Max liked that idea at the age of five.
We practically raised that kid together.
Like emperor penguins, ya know? The guys all get together and look after their young. "
Are we talking about babies? Can he read minds? My palms get moist, so I rub them on my legs. Bronson Butcher never ceases to amaze me to the point of near speechlessness. "Emperor penguins?" is all I manage to say.
"Yep." His bright, opal-blue eyes shift to me and he grins, his lips a tick of mischief. "They're really good fathers."
Oh my gawd. How does he know? I need an aluminium foil hat to stop him from infiltrating my thoughts. Or does that only work with aliens? Maybe some garlic? Or silver?
Focus, Cassidy.
My lungs begin to strain. "Does Max know?" I breathe hard.
When his eyes drop to my belly, his whole face smiles. "Know what? About emperor penguins? No. But I make it my business to know everything about them."
A laugh of relief bursts from me, but I have no idea why. Shaking my head, feeling tongue-tied, I take in his beautiful, comforting presence. I don’t know how he knows... Ugh. Yes, I do. Carter. I frown at Bronson. "Carter told you?"
Grinning, he states, "He had to report it to one of us." I want to be mad, but I'm not. Because Bronson's smile fills my heart with the courage it needs to tell Max.
"Is Max in his room?"
"He's exhausted. Go easy on him."
Beaming from cheek to cheek, I stand to leave but stop abruptly. Peering back at Bronson, still casually slung over the couch, I say, "One day, you're going to tell me why you're single."
He chuckles. "Emperor pigeons."
I laugh again. I have no idea what that means.
Taking the staircase, which I now know is made of Jarrah wood, I navigate my way up to the third floor and through the carpeted hallway to Max's room.
The best part about sneaking into his room at near midnight is being able to watch him sleep for a few moments. It's been a fascination of mine since the first time we slept in the same bed. When he's awake, there is no mistaking who is in charge.
But when he's asleep, he's almost—exposed.
The window is open, but there is no moon tonight, so it’s just a black square dotted with what looks like fireflies spread across the horizon. The only light floods in around his bathroom door, but it's enough for me to see him.
I make my way over to his big bed, noticing that he's sleeping on my side with his head resting on my pillow. I smile harder. I breathe in Max Butcher, dark-brown hair, tanned skin, and the tattoos I like to trace with my fingertip. My Max.
I slide my shoes off quietly, pull my dress over my head, and crawl onto the mattress in my underwear. My nails lightly graze his thigh as I move in close to him.
Suddenly, he jolts up, seizes my throat, and throws me under him. Pressing his heavy body to mine, he pushes the air from my chest, leaving me gasping for it. As fear and arousal swirl through me, my pulse beats hard against his hot, tight grip.
It's me!
But I can’t speak with his fist squeezing the air from me. I was stupid to sneak in here. Because taking a sleeping Max Butcher by surprise might not have been the best idea. I didn't even think about it. Didn't consider his defensive stance on an unknown person in his bed.
He measures me up. His eyes are thin black cuts set into his hard expression.
As the big arm pinning me down shakes with restraint, Max slowly comes to.
Blinking at me, realisation gathering in his mind, he loosens his hold on my neck but doesn't move his hand away.
When his lips press against mine, I catch some breath from within his mouth.
Oh my God.
"Am I dreaming?" He hums—raspy and deep—into our kiss.
"No, Max. I'm here," I whisper, feeling a tidal wave of love. As a tear slides down my cheek, I just feel too much. In deep. And while the heat from his body is so intense it's like I'm being smothered by the sun, his mouth, as it moves on mine is gentle with adoration.
Closing my eyes, I hum and focus on his soft lips as they massage mine. I think about Max Butcher. Only him.
Cupping his rough jaw, I deepen our kiss.
As his fingers twitch around my throat, he exhales a rough, lust-filled growl. "Don't fuck with me."
"I'm not." I breathe against his lips. "Take him away, Max. Please. Take it all away with your touch. Your smell." Thrumming on my leg now is his steel-like erection, and I start to pant into his kiss, wanting it, needing it. Without hesitation. "Max, I want you."
Flipping us over so that I'm on top of him, he pulls me to straddle his hips. He releases my throat, and I inhale sharply, not realising that he had still been squeezing ever so slightly.
God, he smells good. We don't break our kiss.
As if he doesn't believe my conviction, he states, "Stay on top of me, Cassidy. I don't trust myself with you tonight. Not while you're saying shit like that."
My fingers slide up his strong chest and into his messy hair while one of his hands cradles the back of my head and the other strokes down my spine to cup my backside.
I slowly slide my tongue the length of his lips, invoking a groan of pent-up yearning from within his chest. "I trust you with me. I'm sorry I forgot for a while—"
He cuts me off. "I'm not doing this, Cassidy. Not again."
"Please," I whimper. "Take me. I'm yours. If I'm yours, then no one else can touch me. Make me yours again."
He growls at that. "You have always been mine!"
"Show me," I say, my voice barely a whisper, a flutter against his mouth, but no doubt a siren in his soul.
I am desperate for him. Desperate to have him consume me until all the mess in my mind is swallowed up by his being.
Incinerated in the fire he lights in my heart with his loving embrace and possessive touch.
He rolls me under him, a smooth movement that leaves me pressed between his hard body and the mattress.
His mouth works on mine. Lips gentle. Loving.
When his tongue trails down my chin to my throat, tracing the beat of my rapid pulse, I tilt my head back.
Combing my fingers through his hair, I press his lips to my skin harder and breathe heavily.
So heavy.
All of it. The moment. The anticipation.
His movements are leisurely, his tongue savouring. As he licks down my chest to one of my breasts, he cups the other in the gentle, warm vice of his palm. He removes my bra and laps his tongue over my nipple, long and slow, and so gentle it's almost painful.
I want more.